half price my whips
by arahir
Summary: Pining frat!sheith enter a keep-your-hand-on-the-car contest. No one wins. Also, there's a popsicle, but just one.


"I need this car, Keith."

Shiro squints down at him, lips a little pouty. It's a new look for him. Keith hates it, and he hates that it's almost working. They're three hours into this and Keith's set up for the long haul. It's a matter of will.

Keith can best anyone on will. He's made it through a full two years with Shiro in the same frat and one year as roommates and strength isn't physical—it's mental. His will is iron. If he can live through a few hundred shared showers with those abs and the half dozen times Shiro passed out in his bed by accident, he can keep his hand on a car for a few hours. "You already have one."

"Keith…" He smiles, boyish and bright. His bangs are in his face and he doesn't have a spare hand to push them aside with. Keith wants to do it for him, but that's on the no-no list of physical contact he wrote for himself the first time Shiro got drunk and huggy. There's no point replying so Keith tries to focus on anything else.

They were the center of attention for the first hour, but now most of the party is centered around the alcohol. It's summer and balmy and of course they parked the Toyota under in the one patch of uninhibited sunlight in the whole front yard. It's not even a nice Toyota. It's not even new. Keith's in it to win it, but that's fifty percent because Shiro is there and, by association, Keith would be standing by the car anyway.

The other fifty percent is because it's a chance to fuck over both Lance and Matt.

On cue, Lance leans around the hood. "I still can't believe you have a driver's license. I've never seen you drive in my life."

Keith stares down at the nails on his free hand and then at the sun and then at the new kids trying to prove their chops at a keg stand. It's not a contest, but no one can beat Shiro. He can do it one armed with Keith on assist. They're a well-oiled machine. Parties didn't hold any appeal before Shiro—but again, it's a thing he's learned by proximity.

"Keith's a great driver," Shiro says after a minute. He's changing tactics. Keith can't help but side-eye him, corner of his mouth tugging up at the bare-minimum compliment against his will.

Shiro's outfit is a monstrosity: mismatched board shorts, a hoodie he butchered by hand into something theoretically sleeveless and cropped a little too high. That, with the pale hair and the dumb snapback… He's smiling at Keith. Keith realizes he's staring now, thinks about not staring, realizes it'll be weirder to look away and holds the look until that somehow becomes more unbearable and he gives up.

It's going to be a long year.

Lance thumps his head against the car. "How would you even know?" He rolls his head back and forth. "No, you know what? I don't care." For a moment it seems like he might shut up, but no. Instead of voicing his complaints, he makes a sub-verbal whine that draws out for seconds.

Keith's body is mostly sweat and in retrospect, wearing jeans wasn't the smartest move, but he can take it in silence. Lance's misery makes it marginally easier.

"Oh, didn't you hear? They went on vacation together," Matt says from somewhere around the bumper. He's sitting on the ground. That's cheating, somehow.

Lance perks up and Keith refortifies his need to own both of them. "Vacation? Like…"

"It was just a road trip," Keith mutters.

Shiro makes like he's going to nudge Keith's shoulder, but hesitates because touching the other contestants is an instant disqualification. Keith wouldn't call him on it.

"Wait, so… Where did you guys go? Like, together?"

"Yes, _together _. We just went up the coast for a week. It was... fun." Shiro glances over at him again and smiles and Keith knows it's just the heat making his face go red. It has to be. He's had years to practice his way out of this particular brand of blush. Just two friends on summer break together. Two buddies, together for a week, on—

Lance leans further over the hood."But you said you didn't have a car."

"He doesn't," Matt mutters. "He has a bike."

"...A bike, like a motorbike? A motorcycle?" Matt nods. "Keith owns a motorcycle?" Lance is staring at him intensely. It wasn't a secret, but it's not like he keeps it parked at the house or screams up to class on it. The boots and helmet and gloves might have given him a clue, but—maybe he thought it was a style. Keith stares down at his black leather boots and tries to decide if that pisses him off or not.

Shiro is smiling something small and prim and private. Keith glances at him, questioning, but Lance isn't finished.

"Wait—wait. You were on a road trip, together, on Keith's motorcycle? Together?" Keith would give almost anything to see the look on Lance's face. He lets himself look over his shoulder just in time to see Lance's arms come up around his own waist. "—Like this? Like _this _? For days?"

He's not touching the car. Shiro's eyes get wide, mouth open. Matt stands up, finally, pointing at Lance with his free hand, face an absolute riot, and then it's all yelling as the rest of the guys notice Lance's shame like it's blood in the water and come swarming.

They declare it a sanctioned bathroom break. It gives Keith time to breathe and escape the sun and all thoughts of Shiro's arm around his waist for two perfect weeks.

_Just friends, _he reminds himself. _Close as brothers._

* * *

Hour four is uneventful. Aside from a few half-hearted attempts at bribery and manipulation on all sides, no one tries anything or gets disqualified. Lance pulls up a lawn chair to sit with them in an act of—his words—kinship and solidarity, though the image is diminished by the cold drink in his hand and the way he can't seem to take a simple swallow without chasing it with an audible sound of relief.

Shiro can't drink one handed so Keith has to hold the bottle for him. After the first time, he can't look at Shiro, can't watch his throat work, can't watch his lips fit around the opening. He's lived through two years of Shiro in close quarters and two weeks of bed sharing—this can't bring him down. This can't even touch him.

He makes that promise to himself again as Shiro pops off the bottle, lips wet and already twisting into a smile.

It's old news. Shiro is gay and Keith is—not sure, but he likes Shiro in every way a person can. He wants him laughing and wants him quiet and wants him when he's soft and warm right before breakfast and wants him right there, leaning against the side of a shitty 2011 Corolla someone didn't want anymore. This wasn't the plan. The trip was supposed to cure it. In two weeks, he'd at least have an inkling of reciprocity and barring that, time to kill it at last.

No dice. Shiro looked at him the same the first day as he did the last. Keith's trying to come to terms with it as best he can, but the learning curve is wide and long. Maybe he'll always be an idiot for this one thing.

Next to him, Shiro leans in a little, the way he always does before he's going to say something really good. "I think we could probably get Matt to break."

His lips are still wet.

"... How?"

Shiro smiles but doesn't deign to answer. He leans over the back of the car in Matt's direction and Keith envies his height for the hundredth time. No—not envy, but it helps to pretend that's what he feels when they're close and he remembers Shiro can cover him in every direction without meaning to. "How was your summer, Matt?"

"Oh, fine. Didn't get to spend it wrapped up in my best buddy's arms, but—" he rolls his shoulder, "—maybe next time."

"You should have asked." Shiro tosses the hair out of his eyes and Keith's fingers twitch again on the impulse to reach up and help. "I'm sure we could have made room."

Matt gags. "Yeah, I really wanted to spend two weeks on the back of a bike between Keith's ass and your sweaty—" He makes a face and mimes throwing up.

"Oh, come on. It would have been cozy." Shiro has a way of presenting the absurd with steady-eyed kindness. It's hard to tell when he's messing with someone and harder to take offense. As it is, a small, ridiculous kernel of hurt wedges itself under Keith's breastbone. The trip was for them, but maybe that was really it. Maybe next time Matt will come and Lance and Hunk and Katie and Allura and whatever man of the week Shiro is making eyes at.

The thought is so mean, Keith has to press his cheek to the side of the car and take a breath he measures in heartbeats. It doesn't matter. Shiro isn't his. Keith lets the banter and the sounds of the party sink into the background for a minute. It feels like his hand is melded to the car now. At least it's white and not the dull black of Shiro's SUV—as if a college student needs an SUV.

He thinks he's so cool. He is.

"Hey," Shiro nudges his shoulder. When Keith looks up, his head is cocked to the side. "Is everything okay? You know, this is stupid—you don't need to be out here."

He's genuine, but Keith snorts, "Nice try."

It's worth it. It's all worth it. If he has another year with Shiro, he's not going to waste it moping.

* * *

Hour five drags. Shiro's repeated attempts to get Matt to break are totally fruitless and increasingly half hearted. Keith is sutured to the car on sheer stubbornness by that point. The rest of the party keeps making the rounds to come torment and cheer them on in equal parts. It feels like an omen for how the rest of the year is going to shake out and the heat is starting to get to Keith. That has to be it.

"This is dumb," he mutters, when the newest round of maybe-pledges that came by to gush over Shiro finally leave. They look at Shiro like he's a god. Is that how Keith looked at him at the start? The thought torments him. He's always going to be that kid to Shiro, and nothing more.

Matt thuds his head against the car so hard it clangs and shakes him out of his musings. Keith can feel his lost brain cells reverberating through the car. "Whose—ouch—whose idea was it that phones weren't allowed?"

"It's supposed to be a bonding activity," Lance jeers from the sidelines, not looking up from his phone, and then mutters under his breath, "Not that you guys need it."

Keith wipes his forehead on his shoulder and blinks the rest of the wetness out of his eyes. The heat and boredom are making all the bad ideas he's tried to outrun look better and better. Someone's changed out the shitty daytime dubstep for an eighties playlist that makes the whole situation feel like a personal tragicomedy.

He doesn't realize his eyes have strayed until he's been tracing the same drop of sweat from Shiro's temple to the hollow of his throat and down for half a minute or more. With they way his pecs stick out, maybe he'll be able to see it sink down and fall across his hips. Maybe he'll be able to see it sink into the white cloth of the butchered hoodie and wish it was him instead—

"—Keith? Buddy?" Shiro asks.

Keith blinks up at him, but can't drag his eyes away, even in embarrassment. Concern looks good on him, but not better than anything else. He's the only man alive that can make a kegstand look dignified.

"You're really red buddy." _Buddy. _"Hunk grabbed popsicles—want one?"

When he tears his gaze away, Hunk is standing a few feet away with a saintly smile and an open ice chest, the human embodiment of fraternal goodness. Hunk lets him choose with a nod—red, of course, always red—and then turns to Shiro.

They realize the fatal flaw in the plan at the same moment. Shiro only has one hand.

Keith pulls the popsicle out of his mouth and holds it out to Shiro, licking the excess off his lips. "We can share," Keith offers.

Shiro looks at the popsicle and then at Hunk and then at Keith's eyes for the barest second. His pupils are blown wide and black. Evidently the heat isn't just getting to Keith. "No—no, that's okay. I'm good." He's lying, but he's usually better at it.

"Come on. I'll even hold it." It's worse than the water bottle in every imaginable way and a few new ways he can't even visualize, but it's a sacrifice he's willing to make. He pushes it closer to Shiro's face without being too pushy. Shiro takes the bait. He closes his eyes, opens his mouth, leans toward Keith and licks the tip to the smallest degree possible.

Regret, instant and overwhelming, casts over Keith. The dead silence isn't contained to them, he realizes, but stretches for a twenty foot radius around the car. He wants to close his eyes, has to close his eyes as Shiro repeats the move with a little more enthusiasm, but he can't. The liquid stains Shiro's lips an instant and obscene red. Keith's hand jerks by accident and leaves a condemning smear of red across Shiro's cheek.

"Oops." Shiro pulls back, opens his eyes, smile wide and luscious. "That's really good. Thanks, Keith." His voice is wet and sweet as the syrup melting on his cheek. Keith contemplates dropping the popsicle—and the car, while he's at it, and then his major, too, because he was wrong. He's not strong enough. He's not good enough. He's mortal and weak and so, so stupid.

From the other side of the car, Matt makes a sound of physical pain. Hunk isn't looking at them but somewhere in the distance, face fixed in the smallest, saddest smile.

Keith's hand is still outstretched. He's paralyzed as Shiro closes his eyes again and leans down for round two, but Keith knows he won't survive it. In a last act of self preservation, he rips the popsicle back and shoves it in his own mouth. Before the brain freeze hits, he's left with the middle school level thought: _this is an indirect kiss._

Shiro leans forward another inch, chasing it, and then opens his eyes. They're less than a foot apart. His gaze falls to the end of the popsicle where it's still sticking out of Keith's mouth because it's _that _long. He traces the outline of it through Keith's lips and then his gaze strays to Keith's eyes. The pain is overwhelming and Keith knows it shows in the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes

"Keith—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" someone whispers.

He has to commit. He has to do something to fix this. In the distance, the song chances to something synthy and romantic and horrible. Keith bites down as hard as he can and pulls the stick back clean with the last of his will.

Shiro jerks back, but Keith can't read his expression, can't register anything that isn't his entire head imploding in cold and pain._ Commit._

"I can't—I can't believe you did that. I'm—" Hunk turns and stumbles away, one hand on his forehead, ice chest dragging behind him in the cadence of Keith's fallen dignity. Lance follows him after a moment, and then Matt, too, with a parting dig about the car not being worth it,_nothing _being worth it.

He has a point. The fog of pain clears slowly, but in its wake Keith is left adrift in a morass of regret.

"...I can't believe that worked," Shiro says after a long, long minute, still not looking at Keith but off to the side and up. Keith has no idea what he's referring to until Shiro adds, "I've never seen Matt's face do that. I hope Lance got a picture."

Knowing Lance, he got a picture of that and everything else. All of it. Keith's life is over in glorious fashion. If he's lucky, Lance will use one of their free poster credits to get the photo of him mid-bite blown up and then paste it on the outside of Shiro and Matt and Keith's shared room. If he's not, it's already posted online, his shame immortalized. Maybe it's a blessing his phone is still upstairs.

"Sorry," Keith mutters by habit and for lack of anything better to say. It's a blanket apology.

Shiro doesn't reply. After a moment, Keith makes himself look. He's staring at Keith from the corner of his eye. It's not a look Keith knows. It makes him want to sink back a little or turn and hide, or turn and run—as if he could. It's not sunset yet, but nearly, and the party in the distance is starting to kick up in full. It's nice with the two of them. Keith realizes it's been weeks since their trip and this is almost the first moment he's had Shiro to himself since.

He spoiled himself on Shiro's presence.

With his free hand, he brushes the bangs back from his eyes and then brings up the bottom of his tank top to wipe the sweat off. When he pulls the cloth away, Shiro's turned toward him to stare in full. There's a weight to it, a heat almost, and his face is flushed as red as Keith's feels, the center of his brow wrinkled, head slanted a little.

Keith does back up an inch. "What?"

"You've—" he starts to move his arm and then realizes what he's doing and freezes, leaned closer than he needs to be, "—got something. Here." He tongues at the corner of his own mouth.

Keith mimics him and tastes tart and sugar. He licks his lips clean, just in case any popsicle remnants are clinging there. Shiro doesn't move back and he doesn't stop staring. Keith can't move back further—he's already flush against the car, with Shiro leaning half over him now and even though the sun is half down, it's warmer than it was by several degrees.

"—touch him you get disqualified, Shirogane!" someone yells over to them.

Shiro doesn't hear—or if he does, he doesn't care. Keith barely registers it, and not as more than a mistake. Shiro isn't going to touch him. His eyes are wide now, black even though the light is catching them from the side, and god he's beautiful. He's always been beautiful. He's always been good.

This one thing he's denied himself for two years running. It's not healing by small degrees the way he thought it would—it's worse. It's worse when Shiro looks at someone else with hunger, it's worse when Keith thinks of losing him to time and inaction. A year left and he thought he could take it, but if it's going to be a year of this, he can't lie down and take that.

It's not sustainable. Shiro leans until he's a breath away. His eyes close.

Later, Keith won't be able to tell who moves first. Their lips are both a little sticky, a little sweet. Keith pours himself into it after the first shock and fear that Shiro will rip back. He doesn't, so Keith wraps his hand around the back of his neck and brings the other up to clutch at his shoulder, bunching the cloth under his hand. He's damp and hot and wondrous.

He hasn't been drinking, but he feels tipsy as Shiro shifts the angle of the kiss, pulls back without breaking it fully and presses back in far enough that Keith's head hits the car. Keith tries to measure himself back from the rush that's making him want to take more than is on offer. This isn't something he has practice at like Shiro does.

Maybe Shiro knows. He goes slow, parts Keith's lips as his hand comes down to fasten tight to Keith's hip. His grip is iron and hot and Keith moves into it without meaning to, without knowing how not to.

Voices make themselves known distantly, but Keith can't spare enough focus to pick up more than a word at a time. No—multiple people are talking, and he doesn't care. Shiro's hand shifts to his back pocket and pulls him flush against solid muscle and hardness and this—this is going to ruin him—

A hand thumps the car next to his head. "—Hello? Hello? What the fuck are you guys doing?"

They both glance over where Lance is looking at them from a foot away, the look on his face tragic and hurt, like they've both decided to kill his last friend in cold blood before his very eyes. Keith comes back to himself and—god, what are they doing? He realizes his leg is half up around Shiro's waist. They can't get closer together. They can't get further apart, either, not by they way Shiro is practically lying on top of him, covering him against the side of the Corolla.

"Sorry—" Keith starts, heat still thudding through him, making his ears ring, but Shiro isn't having it. He glares up at Lance like he's the immature one for interceding, and then pulls off Keith.

The lack of heat is a shock to his system, but Shiro's doesn't go far. "Lance," he says, the _tsk tsk _evident in that one syllable.

"This is—this is a public space." Lance looks back at the party and raises his arms in the universal gesture of _please help me, please._

Matt—it has to be Matt—yells, "Think of the pledges! Come on, guys."

Shiro glances back at him, and then at Matt, and then down to Keith. They're still so close. Keith understands with perfect clarity why this isn't what they should be doing or where they should be doing it, but the thought of moving from this spot and moment is somehow terror inducing. Of its own accord, his leg comes up around Shiro's waist and pulls him tight, just to keep him there, scared of what will happen if he walks away now.

"Keith?" he asks, as if that's a complete question.

It is, somehow. Keith pulls his hand up to the back of Shiro's neck and knocks his hat off so he can finally run his finger through his bangs, pull the hair out of his eyes. Ironic, when he has to close his own because that gaze that close is too much. "Please," he answers and then opens his eyes again, makes himself look.

It's worth it. A little smile breaks across Shiro's face. It's unexpected and . The next kiss is softer, slower, just as sweet. The part of Keith that still can't believe it's real fades in pleasure and motion as Shiro covers him against the car. If the peanut gallery has objections, they fades away to the background along with every other thing that isn't Shiro's hand and body and mouth.

* * *

The next morning, Keith wakes up at with an arm around his waist and someone hair in his mouth. The clock tells him it's ten in the morning, but it's a Sunday so it doesn't matter. Across the room, Matt's bed is empty. Keith extricates himself to check the door and sure enough, there's a poster there of him bug-eyed, cheeks bulging, Shiro's face half visible on the side of the photo, red and wide-eyed as Keith tries to He tears it down, locks the door, and crawls back into bed to press his face to Shiro's neck.

"Keith?" he asks, voice muffled and muggy and hoarse.

Keith smiles when he remembers why and works his arm under Shiro's waist, pulling him into a hug that's going to have his arm asleep in fifteen minutes.

"It's okay," he murmurs into Shiro's cheek. "You can have the car."


End file.
